


Far Worse Things

by Miss M (missm)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Family, Gen, Introspection, Melancholy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-14
Updated: 2012-05-14
Packaged: 2017-11-05 09:40:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Augusta has never pretended to be a kind, patient woman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Far Worse Things

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Vegablack62 in the 2010 help_haiti auction. Thanks so much to Kelly for the beta!

It is almost ten o'clock. The flat is dark and quiet, only a few candles lit. Augusta prefers it this way. No fuss.  
  
Later, she'll stand by the window, watching the Muggle fireworks over the river. She'll get out the bottle of champagne which she bought in France many years ago and never drank, always saving it for a special occasion. She'll get it out from wherever it is, she'll empty it, and she'll savour every drop; she'll have a merry little New Year's Eve, all by herself.  
  
Or she'll just sit here a little longer, finishing her drink -- Firewhisky, not champagne -- before she goes to bed. That's also an option. After all, it's just a night like any other night.  
  
Augusta leans back in her chair and closes her eyes, twirling the glass between her hands. How many nights, like this? The years are passing so quickly; somehow, she can't take them seriously anymore, the way she used to. They're like months, weeks, minutes; little entities of time that mark the decay of living bodies, nothing more.  
  
And yet, she supposes it is wrong of her not to celebrate, if only a little. After all, it's only once a year, and she may not live to see another one.  
  
Thoughts fly through her mind, escape, return. Many of them have to do with Neville. This is the first time he hasn't been here for the Christmas break. It's good, she thinks, for him to stay at Hogwarts. Well, not for him, but for the others -- he seems to have become a leader of sorts, or that's at least the impression Augusta has got. From the rumours, that is, and not from the owls he sends her, which are all impeccably bland -- partly due to modesty, perhaps, but it's also obvious he wants to protect her. Augusta isn't sure how she feels about that, but she can't help being proud.  
  
She really ought to get him out of there, somehow. There is some money left; she could get a Portkey... But then again, she has always wanted him to prove himself, and now he does.  
  
And Augusta herself is not the type of witch who runs away. Not now, not ever. She'd much rather face her enemies in the open; she'd much rather suffer anything but this ridiculous shadow-war, this shadow-hunt. She'd much rather die in battle, taking with her as many of them as possible. That would be a good way to go, possibly the best -- no lingering around, no stretching of patience.  
  
There is a ward at St. Mungo's, not far from Janus Thickey, for the old: witches and wizards who can't control their magic anymore, who are a danger to themselves and others and who need constant care. That's what will happen to her, sooner or later, unless Neville takes it upon himself to look after her -- she wouldn't put it past him, poor boy. But it's wrong, Augusta thinks, to reverse the order of things so completely, even if that's the way it's meant to be -- it's _wrong_ to make her an object of his pity, of his inevitable guilt-mixed resentment. She'd much rather go out with a blast.  
  
Besides, who cares about the way it's meant to be? Neville wasn't meant to grow up without parents. There is no meaning to what happened.  
  
The Firewhisky is burning in her throat.  
  
Death has never scared her very much. Life has, sometimes, although she's always been able to swallow her fears by summoning her Gryffindor courage and her own solid will. Life must be borne, that's all.  
  
She remembers the pets Neville used to keep when he was little, toads and rats and other small creatures that never lived very long -- they'd get old, or sick with illnesses Augusta's Potions couldn't cure. She remembers the way he cried whenever she'd been forced to put them out of their misery; he'd be inconsolable, and she never knew what to say to him, how to explain that the animals had been as happy as they could, that they'd been lucky to belong to him and not to some nasty child who would have tortured them, that no-one lives forever, and that there are far worse things than dying.  
  
In the end, she'd end up taking him to the neighborhood park where he'd perform solemn funerals, insisting on digging the hole by his own hands. Now that Augusta thinks about it, he's always had a fondness for dirt and soil and living things. She remembers the toad he took with him to Hogwarts -- Trevor was its name, if she recalls correctly. She wonders if Trevor managed to thrive under the Professors' care, if Neville got to keep his pet for a longer time. She's never thought to ask him.  
  
Half past ten. Someone is singing outside, down in the streets. She should get out her bottle of champagne now, if she really means to.  
  
Maybe it's this gentleness of his that's always puzzled her so, this desire to nurture, which she has too often taken for softness. She's wanted to toughen him. She's told him to think of the family honour, she's asked him what he thinks his parents would have said if they'd known he'd failed Potions -- a rather mean trick, for Augusta suspects they would have thought nothing of it. Always so light-hearted, Alice and Frank.  
  
She wonders what he's doing tonight.  
  
Maybe he's not involved in anything particular at all, at least not in anything that has to do with fighting. Perhaps he's just met someone special, someone with whom he wants to spend Christmas. Augusta has no reason to believe so from the letters she's received, but then again, why would he tell her? Apart from Hermione Granger, he has never talked to her about girls. Augusta doesn't even know if he _likes_ girls.  
  
Maybe he's just slipping away from her, and maybe that's all she deserves. Augusta has never pretended to be a kind, patient woman. With Frank, it was always so easy, or at least easier, or at least she thinks it was easier. But Neville's bravery is of the kind that comes with a stutter, and Augusta thinks she may have been too hard on him -- a thought that's been recurring these last couple of years. She hasn't told him as much, though, and she isn't sure she will.  
  
It's all too much, even on a night like this. Augusta drains her glass of Firewhisky; then, forgoing all thoughts of champagne, she gets up from her chair. It's almost eleven, time to go to bed for old women who have nothing to do on New Year's Eve but attend their own pity party.  
  
There's a tapping on the window: the unmistakable sound of an owl. She lets it in, recognising it immediately as coming from Hogwarts. The owl accepts a piece of cold goose, then leaves her to her letter, which she opens after performing a quick curse-detecting spell.  
  
 _  
Dear Gran,  
  
I hope you are well. I don't have the time to write much, but I wanted to wish you a Happy New Year.  
  
Love,  
Neville_  
  
  
Augusta bites her lip, swallowing, clutching the letter in her suddenly trembling fingers. It's the Firewhisky, she tells herself, it's the alcohol and the sentimentality, nothing more.  
  
Still, she puts down the letter carefully, reminding herself to reply first thing in the morning: she'll begin the new year this way, by telling him in measured words -- surely all letters are censured? -- to take care of himself. She'll tell him that he's doing well.  
  
Maybe she'll let him know that there's a bottle of champagne waiting for him, whenever he comes home. 


End file.
